


Vengeance

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When part of Ronon's past suddenly surfaces, Sheppard gets dragged into the middle of it, and it will take all of Ronon's skills to get both of them back to Atlantis alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> Set season 2, many months after Ronon joins the team. Spoilers for Trinity.

“Ronon Dex?”

The yell came from across the tavern, causing Ronon, Sheppard, Teyla and McKay to snap their heads up. As far as Ronon could remember, he had never come to this world before, but he felt dread begin to curdle in his stomach.

 _Had he forgotten this place?_ He’d seen a lot of worlds after seven years of running. Hundreds of worlds. He’d had dozens of addresses memorized, but some of them had slipped away after a year on Atlantis. He still knew the ones to mostly uninhabited worlds with good places to hide, easy prey to hunt, enough materials for makeshift weapons in an emergency. Those places he would never forget. But this world…he was sure he had never been to this world, even for a few hours.

A man was standing up at a table at the far end of the room, waving an arm. The tavern was crowded, and Sheppard had guided the team to a table in the corner where they could keep an eye on all the exits and all the patrons wandering in and out. Ronon narrowed his eyes at the man calling out to him over the din of a dozen conversations. He didn’t know him—he was sure of it. He didn’t know the other men at the table either, from what he could see.

“Friends of yours?” Sheppard asked, looking relaxed, but Ronon saw he had one hand under the table near his holstered .45.

“Don’t know,” Ronon answered.

The man had leaned down to talk to his companions, but now he cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled out Ronon’s name even louder, enough to attract the attention of a few other people sitting at nearby tables.

“Well, he knows you,” Sheppard said. “Maybe we should go talk to the guy.”

“He could be our contact,” McKay added, picking up a potato wedge off his plate and studying it with suspicion.

“Major Lorne said the contact was blond and very nervous,” Teyla said, watching McKay as he carefully bit off the end of his potato. “This food is not flavored with citrus.”

McKay narrowed his eyes and looked ready to retort, but Sheppard held up a hand. “Then he’s not our contact. You two stay here and wait for the nervous guy to show up. Ronon and I will go introduce ourselves to his new friend, maybe take the conversation outside before he attracts any more attention. Call if anything happens—we’ll try not to take too long.”

Ronon nodded, standing up almost before Sheppard had finished talking. He was tired of sitting around waiting for their contact to show up. It was a hopeless mission anyway. It had been months since they’d last seen Ford on the hive ship, but Sheppard was still compelled to chase down every possible lead, no matter how flimsy the information sounded.

Not that Ronon could blame him. If it had been one of his men, from Sateda, he’d probably be doing the exact same thing, regardless of how slim the chance the man was even alive. It was reassuring, in a way. What drove Sheppard didn’t appear to be all that different from what drove Ronon.

The man at the table watched him and Sheppard weave their way through the crowd and tables. When they were within a few feet, the other three men stood up and turned to face them. Ronon scanned their faces, their hands, their body language. None of them looked familiar. Their clothes were of the standard drab, hand-woven variety found on any number of worlds. They were all armed—he could see that by the way they were standing—but then again, so was he. And so was Sheppard.

“Ronon Dex?” the man who’d originally called out to him asked again. He was wearing a brown coat and dark blue pants, and black hair hung around his face. He needed a shower and a shave, and a few less nights sitting in bars.

“Who’s asking?” Ronon returned, keeping his distance. His eyes darted to the faces of the other men, but they stared back expressionless—neither acting like they recognized him nor showing any interest in getting to know him. He felt a shiver run down the back of his neck. These men were hiding something, but what that meant for him and Sheppard, he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“The name’s Addis,” the man answered. “Of Sateda.”

Ronon’s breath caught in his throat. _Sateda?_ He stared at the men in front of him again, studying their outfits and mannerisms with renewed interest. The clothing could be from anywhere, except…one of the men was wearing a white shirt under his coat, almost hidden beneath his long jacket. It was untied at the neck, but he knew that style. He’d worn that type of shirt his entire life.

“Why don’t we take this outside?” Sheppard said, stepping forward and nodding toward the exit. “It’s a little crowded in here.”

Addis shot Sheppard a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something off about the men, but… _Sateda._ Were they really from Sateda? Whatever was going on, none of them made a move for their weapons hidden under their clothes and none of them gave much besides a cursory glance at his and Sheppard’s weapons out in the open. They also led the way out of the tavern—giving Ronon and Sheppard a definite advantage by turning their backs on them.

Sheppard looked over at him, studying his face. He wanted to ask if Ronon was okay with this—Ronon could read the look as easily as if his team leader had spoken the question out loud. Ronon shrugged, tightening his grip on his blaster and following the four strangers into the street.

It had grown dark in the short time his team had been sitting in the tavern. The sun had set behind distant mountains, throwing the small town into shadows. He breathed deeply, letting the chilly air wake him up. Addis and the other three turned down the street and walked slowly, throwing glances over their shoulders to make sure Ronon and Sheppard were following.

“How do you know me?” Ronon called out when they’d walked at least a hundred feet from the tavern.

“So you are Ronon Dex?”

Ronon said nothing, waiting.

“We served under Markel, like you. We were on a mission when the Wraith hit home. When we got back, we ran into the survivors—maybe three hundred of them—trying to get off Sateda. We went with them to Manaria.”

Ronon felt his heart skip a beat and he gasped, at once irritated with himself for showing himself to these strangers and yet hopeful. The Satedan survivors. He’d been searching for any sign of them for months, but he’d found no Satedans on Manaria, or Belsa, or Belkan.

“We went to Manaria. You weren’t there,” Sheppard said, and Ronon had forgotten for a moment that his friend was standing next to him. Addis and his men snapped their heads at the sound of his voice, looking like they’d forgotten he was there, too.

“We’re a little skittish—we tend to move from world to world. Who are you again?”

“My friends call me John,” Sheppard answered, and Ronon recognized the drawl, the easygoing attitude, the wide stance. It was uncanny how often it worked—convincing even well-trained warriors that he was no one to worry about when every muscle was taut and ready for a fight.

Addis didn’t reply, just stared at Sheppard’s face another moment then turned back to Ronon. “We heard you’d been captured by the Wraith and made a runner, and then escaped. Then about a year ago, some men came back from Belkan—”

Ronon tensed involuntarily at the word, his eyes darting toward Sheppard before he schooled himself and forced his hand to relax its white-knuckled grip on his blaster. Addis paused at the reaction, and Ronon saw Sheppard giving him an odd look out of the corner of his eye.

“From Belkan,” Addis continued, “and said they’d run into you. We’ve made it a bit of a practice to search out any Satedan survivors. Bring them home, so to speak.”

He’d never told Sheppard about Belkan. About killing Kell in cold blood. He was convinced to this day that Kell deserved what he’d gotten, but even after a year on Atlantis, he still wasn’t sure Sheppard would understand what he’d done. Or that he’d look at Ronon the same way.

“We’re glad we’ve finally found you, Ronon Dex,” Addis finished. There was something in his voice that stilled Ronon’s racing thoughts and emotions and flooded his body with adrenaline. The sense that something was wrong returned with full force. He straightened and then heard a whistle of air from behind him.

Sheppard gasped, raising a hand to his neck. Ronon spun around, pulling his blaster, but Sheppard staggered into him and latched onto his arm.

“Sheppard!” he called out. He grabbed onto his vest, but the man was a dead weight, his head lolling backward. Another six men had appeared, surrounding them, and then Ronon felt a sharp pinprick of pain in his neck. He dropped Sheppard as his arms immediately began to tingle, the nerves growing numb quickly. He had a last-minute thought of calling Teyla and McKay, but he couldn’t lift his arm to reach his radio. His knees folded, and Addis grabbed onto his shirt, holding him up and bringing Ronon’s face close to his.

“You will pay for Commander Kell’s death,” Addis sneered, hatred darkening his face. “We will avenge his murder.”

* * *

Ronon came awake with a start, realizing immediately that his hands and ankles were tied together, forcing him to lie curled up in a ball. His head pounded, as did a spot on the side of his neck, and he remembered the pinprick of pain right before he’d lost consciousness. Addis. The Satedans. Vengeance.

He was a dead man. There was no doubt in his mind. A part of him had always known that if anyone loyal to Kell was still around, and they found out what he’d done, they would be obligated as Satedan warriors to avenge the death of their commander. He supposed he’d been lucky that day in the tavern when he’d killed Kell that none of the soldiers with his former commander had been loyal enough to exact revenge.

He heard a soft groan behind him and he rolled onto his back. He was in a small cage—a box, really—just wide enough for him to fit as long as he didn’t stretch out. Not that he could with his hands tied to his ankles. He scooted along the ground until he was near one side and peered through the slats. In the dim light, he could just make out another shape—dark clothes, dark hair, wrists and ankles bound.

“Sheppard?”

There was another groan, and the dark shape began to move, inching closer to Ronon’s voice.

“Sheppard, you okay?”

“What the hell?” Sheppard sounded tired, and he pressed his forehead against the wall.

Ronon caught a flash of hazel eyes and a forehead creased in pain. What could he say? _We were drugged? We’ve been taken captive?_ He said nothing. Sheppard had always understood his silence.

“Where are we?” Sheppard asked a moment later.

“Feels like a different planet,” Ronon answered. The planet with the tavern and McKay and Teyla had been cold, heading rapidly into winter. This place was humid and hot.

“They say what they want? If the Genii with their mug shot posters are behind this, I swear to God I’ll…”

He didn’t finish, letting the sentence trail off in a sigh. Ronon shifted, feeling a sudden weight press against his chest. He knew what this was about—and he had to tell his friend.

“Sheppard…” he started then stopped. He should have told him about it months ago, but he’d been weak. He’d been so relieved at the idea of not running, of having a safe haven from the constant, endless pursuit of the Wraith that he hadn’t wanted to risk it all for something he’d done in his first few weeks on Atlantis. And most of the time it was easy to forget about the incident. To go on living his new life with new friends.

He paused too long. He heard Sheppard grunt as he tried to sit up, and then his face was pressed against the slight gap in the slats between their two cages. “Ronon.”

It wasn’t a question. Ronon closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. He wasn’t a child, and putting off this conversation wasn’t going to change anything. Either Sheppard accepted what he’d done or he didn’t. Better he hear it from him than Addis.

“I killed their commander,” he said. Sheppard didn’t move, but Ronon could feel his eyes on him. “They’re bound by oath to avenge his death.”

“They’re going to kill us for some guy who died, what? Seven years ago? Eight years ago?”

Ronon shook his head. He could hear someone talking from far away, the voice too faint for him to identify.

“Ronon?” Sheppard prompted.

“Last year,” Ronon answered.

“Last…When last year? You would have—”

Ronon cut him off, resolved now to tell him the entire story and be damned with the consequences. “When Teyla and I went to Belkan, right after I came to Atlantis—where I found out about the Satedan survivors. They told me Kell was there so I arranged for them to set up a meeting.” Now that he was talking, the words came easier, faster. Sheppard was quiet next to him. “Kell…Kell was commander over all the Satedan forces when the Wraith attack started. I didn’t realize until too late that he’d been planning his escape all along, setting up a base and trade network on another planet to ensure he not only survived but survived in luxury.”

“What happened?” Sheppard asked when Ronon paused, intent.

“He sent thousands of men to their deaths to clear the way for him to get to the gate and escape. Tens of thousands of men.” He felt a surge of anger at the memory but fought it down. “I avenged _their_ deaths—all of them. When Kell showed up to the meeting on Belkan, I killed him.”

Sheppard said nothing, and Ronon could hear him breathing softly. A minute passed, and Ronon squirmed, tugging on his wrists. The ropes were tight, preventing almost any movement, and he had no knives within reach.

“Didn’t Teyla go to Belkan with you?” Sheppard finally asked.

Ronon nodded then breathed out, “Yeah.”

“She never said anything. Neither of you have ever said anything about this.”

“She didn’t…we didn’t think you’d understand, and I’d only been on Atlantis a few weeks. I didn’t really know you—any of you.” He twisted so he was looking Sheppard in the eye, as much as was possible in the cramped space and tiny gap. “I stand by what I did, Sheppard. I did what I had to do. He deserved to die—he deserved to die slowly and painfully—but the end result is still the same.”

Sheppard was silent again, but Ronon heard him moving around in the box. There was a chirp from a bird overhead, and the sound of something—a small animal, perhaps—jumping from a branch and rustling the leaves. Someone laughed, loud and raucous, and the sound of men talking drifted toward them then died down again.

“Kell showed up alone?”

“No,” Ronon answered. His headache was starting to ease, making it easier for him to focus on their current situation. “There were four or five others, and Teyla. I told them they could kill me on the spot if they thought Kell hadn’t deserved it.”

“What’d they do?” Sheppard’s voice sounded strained, like he was struggling against the ropes.

“Nothing. They walked away.”

Sheppard froze, considering that, then nodded once, but before Ronon could dwell on what it meant, he heard footsteps approaching. A man shouted, and the top of his cage was ripped off. Ronon squinted in the sudden shift from dark shadow to sunlight, willing his eyes to adjust faster, but hands were suddenly on his arms, cutting the rope that was binding his wrists to his ankles and then pulling him upright.

He swayed, his ankles still tied to each other and his arms still bound in front of him. Addis stood in front of him with his hands on his hips, flanked by the three from the tavern. Ronon risked a glance at Sheppard as he was also pulled to his feet. Two men held each of them, bringing the total to eight men. Ronon could hear others moving behind him and he caught a glimpse of more through the trees where he’d heard the voices. More than eight then.

His mind reeled. _How many men? Where was the gate? What world were they on?_ He and Sheppard had been stripped of their weapons and radios, and Sheppard stripped of his vest. They’d even managed to find most of his knives, though not all. He still felt at least one of them digging into his skin, the hilt pressing against his scalp.

“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” Sheppard started, but Addis’s men were quick to react. One of the men from the tavern stepped forward and punched Sheppard in the gut, dropping the man before the ones holding him could tighten their grip. Sheppard fell forward, hitting the front of the box with his stomach and hanging as he gasped.

“Oh, there’s been no mistake,” Addis said. He flicked his chin toward the two men who’d been holding Sheppard by the arms. “Pick him up.”

Sheppard was red-faced and breathing hard, part anger and part pain. Ronon had seen the look on his face before. He tried to catch Sheppard’s eye and warn him. These men were angry and violent, and things could get out of hand quickly.

Ronon leaned forward, staring Addis in the face. A part of him wanted to grin when Addis leaned away from Ronon’s towering hulk. If he’d been alone, he might have grinned just to mess with the man’s head, but Sheppard had been dragged into the middle of the situation through no fault of his own. He couldn’t risk setting these men off any more than he already had.

“You said this was about Kell,” Ronon said. Addis’s eyes narrowed but he made no response, waiting for Ronon to finish. Ronon jerked his head toward Sheppard. “Leave him out of this. You want your revenge, fine. Here I am. But let Sheppard go.”

“Ah, yes. Sheppard—John Sheppard,” Addis said, his eyes glinting. Ronon felt his stomach go cold. “Your commanding officer, I believe—now that you’ve forsaken your home and your people.”

Ronon lunged forward, the simmering anger suddenly exploding out of him. “I never—”

His shout was cut short by a punch in his stomach from Addis himself. His knees folded beneath him and he let his weight and gravity pull him backward, away from a second punch. When none came, he braced himself, his gaze locked on Addis. He tensed then lunged with a scream, using the anger and adrenaline pumping through him to break away from the grasp of the two men behind him.

Except that his legs were still tied together. He remembered a second too late and felt his body tipping forward. Addis jumped back at Ronon’s lunge then scowled, and four men were suddenly surrounding Ronon and keeping him from moving.

“Bring them,” Addis spat, then spun on his heel and walked into the woods.

The men didn’t loosen their grip by much. They cut the ropes around his and Sheppard’s ankles then pulled them out of their cages and along the path that Addis had walked. Their cages were hidden behind thick bushes at one end of a clearing, and Ronon looked around, taking in every detail of the camp as he could.

Their stuff was out of sight, possibly inside one of the shabby tents along the edges of the clearing. A campfire burned in the center despite the heat of the day, the scent of roasted meat filling Ronon’s nostrils. Whatever they’d been cooking was gone, but he still smelled it and his stomach tightened in response.

He pushed the thought out of his mind. He counted eleven men total, as long as no one was in any of the tents, although he didn’t think so. They were about to avenge the death of their _beloved_ commander—no one would miss that show. He had slowed down as they’d neared the edge of the camp, and a hand shoved him forward. Behind him, he heard Sheppard stumbling on the path as he, too, was pushed along.

They followed a narrow path through the thick trees. The forest looked unfamiliar—wild and tropical. Another bird whistled from somewhere off to the side, but when Ronon turned to look, he could see nothing through the broad leaves and vines and thick black tree trunks. He caught the scent of water and snapped his head around, but he didn’t see it until they broke through the trees and stepped out onto a rocky cliff ledge.

The cliff jutted out another thirty feet free of brush and foliage and then dropped into a…lake. Or sea. Not an ocean—no salt smell, no waves. The water rippled in the light breeze, the sun sinking toward the far horizon, throwing shards of glitter across its surface. Ronon could not see the opposite shoreline. The lake was huge and wide, stretching out on either side of them, their side of the sea all sheer cliff walls.

Fifty feet down? Possibly. They could jump, but that was a long drop and they had no idea how deep the water was at the base of the cliff. Chances were the water would be too shallow, and he and Sheppard would both end up dead.

Ronon was forced to stop then kneel on the hard ground. If this was how they were going to play, so be it. It was dishonorable, but he hadn’t given Kell much of a chance either. He tensed, waiting for a gun to be pressed to his head when Sheppard was shoved past him. He felt a stab of regret at the sight. This was not Sheppard’s fight—he did not deserve this.

They were tying a second rope around Sheppard’s wrist—a long rope attached at the other end to the nearest trunk along the tree line. Addis yanked on it, testing its strength, then turned to Ronon, smiling.

“Ronon Dex, you deprived us of our commanding officer,” he started, and the men around them whooped in excitement. “Tonight, we avenge Commander Kell by depriving you of yours.”

Sheppard had paled at the words, but his jaw was clenched tight. Ronon stared at him, wishing he could convey what was in his mind through his eyes. He would kill these men. He would kill every single one of them for even threatening to hurt Sheppard.

“And we will ensure your deprivation is as _slow_ and _painful_ as possible.”

Through the shouting, Addis stepped toward Sheppard and pulled out a long, serrated knife. The men holding Sheppard had stepped away, releasing him, but there was nowhere for his team leader to go. He had Addis and his knife in front of him, a sheer drop behind him, and a leash tying him to the immediate area.

Sheppard stepped back, his bound arms raised, as Addis approached. Ronon saw the rope tied between the tree and Sheppard’s arms uncoil a bit at the movement. The rope was much longer than the thirty-foot space between the tree line and cliff edge. Maybe twice that. The rope uncoiled again as Sheppard continued backward.

 _No, not that long,_ Ronon amended. If Sheppard went over the cliff, he’d probably fall and hang about twenty feet down. Was that his plan? Jump over the edge of the cliff? Ronon saw Sheppard glancing from side to side, looking for another way out. The men holding Ronon’s arms relaxed their grip slightly as they were drawn into the spectacle before them, but Ronon forced himself to ignore it. He still felt the hilt of one of his small knives pressing against the back of his head. If he could just get to it…

Sheppard stopped, less than a foot between him and the drop to the water. Ronon saw him staring at the rope and realizing how far he’d drop before the line went taut. He’d misjudged. Ronon saw the knowledge blooming in the other man’s eyes. Sweat was beading along Sheppard’s forehead, and he brought bound hands up to wipe it away.

Addis chose that moment to lunge, swiping his blade in a wide arc. It wasn’t meant to kill, just scare. Possibly cut. But Addis had misjudged as well. Sheppard leaned back, and the stone beneath his feet suddenly gave out. He crouched, diving forward for solid ground, and wrapped both hands around the rope attached to the tree, but his weight was too far over the edge of the crumbling cliff. Before Ronon could blink, Sheppard was gone.

And a second later, he was screaming, howling in pain as, presumably, the rope caught his fall and slammed him into the cliff side. Addis was scrambling backward, the knife hanging in his hand at his side. Ronon used the moment of surprise to fly to his feet and twist out of the grasp of the men holding him. He didn’t have time to reach for his own knife, but Addis was still distracted.

The rope tied to the tree was taut, and Ronon could just see it swinging below the point where it was pressing against the cliff edge. Sheppard had stopped screaming but Ronon heard the man moving, scrambling against the sheer rock wall. A shout behind them jerked Addis out of his stunned surprise, and he spun around just as Ronon lowered his shoulder and charged.

The two hit the ground with a reverberating thud, Ronon on top. He felt more than heard one or more of Addis’s ribs crack beneath him. The man opened his mouth in a silent scream, throwing his head back as he gasped for air. He’d dropped the knife, and Ronon caught sight of the blade glinting off the setting sun just a couple of feet away. He rolled off the Satedan leader and scrambled for the weapon.

He popped up again, holding the knife between his bound hands. Addis had rolled to the side and was throwing up, his arms wrapped around his chest, moaning every time he heaved. Ronon bent his legs, finding his balance. He had to get these ropes off his arms, but he couldn’t do that now. The other ten men had pulled guns and knives of their own, including his blaster, and were advancing toward him.

“Cut the rope!” Addis yelled, his voice breathless and rasping.

Ronon still heard Sheppard moving around behind him—still hanging, still bound. “Don’t,” he thundered, as one of the men from the tavern lifted a short sword and raised it above the rope.

The man paused, glanced at Ronon, and then swung his sword down with a roar. The taut rope snapped instantly. Below him, Sheppard yelped in surprise, and Ronon watched, horrified, as the cut end of the rope flew over the edge. A second passed, then another, and then Ronon heard a distant splash as Sheppard hit the water.

Addis’s men weren’t finished. One of them raised a Genii-style handgun and aimed it at Ronon’s chest, but before he could get off a shot, Ronon spun and leapt off the cliff, no time to even consider any other options.

The drop felt infinitely long. He had time to stare out across the golden, rippling water. To see the sun almost completely buried in the horizon, its last crescent edge shrinking rapidly. To feel the rush of wind through his hair. He heard shouts from above, but then the water loomed up beneath him. He tensed, straightening his legs and bringing his bound hands as close to his body as he could.

He pointed his toes a half second before he hit, and then he was plunging deep into the lake. He didn’t hit bottom, just let himself hang in the water for a moment in relief as thousands of bubbles rose up around him. Miraculously, he still had Addis’s knife in his hand, and he began to saw at the rope around his hands, letting the air out of his lungs slowly as he drifted up toward the surface.

Dusk was turning to night quickly. He broke through the rope and almost shed it, but then changed his mind and wrapped it around his waist. First rule of survival: never throw away anything that might be useful later. He let his head break the surface of the lake, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed himself under again. In the split second he’d come up, he’d heard shouts high above him and saw that the sun was still throwing a bit of light across the water. He also hadn’t seen any sign of Sheppard.

He spun around in the water, looking for his team leader, and caught a glimpse of black clothes off to the side. It was growing dark fast, and he had minutes before the sun disappeared completely. He pushed through the water, reaching Sheppard within seconds, but even then the light had dimmed to where he almost couldn’t see anything.

He wrapped his arm around Sheppard’s chest with flooding relief. They surfaced to more shouts and the distinctive pops of guns being fired, but the threat was far above them and no bullets hit the water nearby. In the short time they’d been in the lake, they’d drifted at least a dozen feet toward the south.

“Sheppard, buddy,” Ronon hissed in his friend’s ear, but Sheppard remained limp, his head bending toward the water. The world above the surface of the lake was only a little more visible than the one below. Ronon tightened his grip and kicked through the water, reaching a shadowy area at the base of the cliff. There was nothing to hold onto, so he treaded water and twisted Sheppard around until he was on his back.

“Sheppard,” he said a little louder. In the growing darkness, he could barely see his face. He pressed an ear to the man’s mouth and grimaced when he felt no breath.

He pressed his hands into Sheppard’s neck and was grateful to find a rapid pulse. Maneuvering him in the water was tricky. Was CPR even possible here? At least he didn’t have to try doing chest compressions. Yet.

He tucked the knife into his belt then weaved a hand over Sheppard’s arm and under his back. That would hold him above water, at least, and leave one of Ronon’s hands free to work. He pulled on Sheppard’s chin to open his mouth and scooped a finger toward the back of his throat to clear the airway, dismayed at the sea water that dribbled out.

“Come on, buddy,” Ronon murmured, still kicking his feet to keep them both afloat. The muscles in his thighs were beginning to burn.

As the tip of the sun finally disappeared, Sheppard bucked, coughing and gagging. Ronon shifted, grabbing him by the shoulders with both hands to hold him upright. He let Sheppard’s head fall forward until it was leaning against his own forehead, out of the water and out of danger of aspirating anything. Sheppard continued to cough weakly as he spit up water, but he was breathing again.

The sound must have carried up to top of the cliff. Ronon heard more shouting as the men spread out above them.

“Sheppard?” he whispered.

“Ronon?” The whisper was rough and low, almost inaudible, and Sheppard had made no attempt to swim or keep himself afloat.

“Hold on, buddy,” Ronon answered. He moved behind Sheppard then leaned him back until Sheppard’s head was resting on his shoulder. He relaxed, letting his legs float up to the top. He couldn’t feel them moving, but he caught a glimpse of the rock wall creeping past as a slight current pulled them south. The sun had set, and darkness had blanketed the area quickly and given them a bit of cover.

“You awake?” he whispered, a few minutes later. He could still hear Addis and his men high up on the cliffs, but it was finally starting to sound like he was gaining some distance on them. He kicked his legs, careful to keep his feet under water so as not to splash or alert the men to their position.

“Hmm?”

Sheppard was awake but clearly not with it. Ronon patted his shoulder and began to swim harder, away from the cliff walls and out into the sea a little. He continued moving south as well. A tiny moon had risen in the eastern sky, reflecting just enough light for Ronon to see a dim outline of the cliffs to his side.

“Just relax,” he said.

“I fell.”

Ronon almost laughed at the obvious statement, but he clamped his jaw shut. “Yeah, you did. But if you hadn’t, we’d probably both be dead right now.”

“What happened?”

“After you went over the cliff?”

“Yeah.”

“I jumped in after you.”

“That was dumb.”

Ronon did laugh this time, a low rumble that jerked in his chest. “You okay?”

“Don’t know,” Sheppard answered, and Ronon frowned at the way he was beginning to slur his words.

“Anything hurt?”

“Head,” he answered immediately. “Can’t keep my eyes open. Everything feels…weird. Out of whack. Is it dark?”

“Yeah, it’s dark. You were knocked out for a few minutes, probably when you hit the water,” Ronon said, shifting his grip. The sound of their captors had died out, and for the moment it was easy to think the two of them were alone.

“Arms…shoulders…hurt like hell,” Sheppard mumbled.

Ronon glanced down at Sheppard’s arms, still bound together at the wrists, and wondered how much force had been exerted on them when the rope had caught and halted Sheppard’s downward momentum. The rope that had been tied to the tree floated behind them in a line. “I’ll cut that rope off in a minute, but we need to find a place to hole up soon. This water isn’t cold, but we can’t stay in here forever.”

Sheppard didn’t answer but Ronon felt him nod as his head brushed against Ronon’s shoulder. Ronon pumped his legs faster, scanning the cliff walls for any way out of the water.

The second moon was a godsend. It rose up above the cliffs in brilliant reflected splendor, lighting up the lake and the cliffs. It was at least four times the size of the smaller moon, and between the two of them, Ronon could pick out details in the cliff face—little ledges and handholds, cracks with trees growing out the side, darker spots that could be caves or recesses in the wall.

He spotted one of those dark spots at the base of the cliff just ahead and began to swim toward it. As he grew closer, he sighed in relief. A cave—and a fairly decent sized one as well. It wasn’t deep, but he could see a rocky shelf just a foot above the water at the back, wide enough for both him and Sheppard to get out of the water and dry off a little.

“Sheppard?” he called out once he’d swum into the cave. He hung on the rock ledge and shook his friend. “Sheppard, wake up.”

“What?” Sheppard sounded groggy and disoriented, even more so than before.

“We’re getting out of the water. Ready?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He kicked his legs hard against the water, raising his upper body, and leaned forward over the ledge. He kept one hand on Sheppard’s shirt and used the other hand to pull himself up farther onto the ledge, finally getting his feet up and out of the water. He cringed as Sheppard dipped below the surface and flailed, coughing as he resurfaced. Ronon managed to get his knees underneath him and he grabbed Sheppard under the arms. He lifted and crawled backward, cringing at Sheppard’s cry of pain. A second later, both men lay panting on the rock ledge.

“Sorry,” Ronon said.

Sheppard groaned in response.

The light wasn’t as bright inside the shallow cave as it was outside, but Ronon saw Sheppard’s eyelids fluttering as the man threatened to slip into unconsciousness. Ronon tapped the side of Sheppard’s face until Sheppard moaned and shot a glare at him.

“Need you to stay awake, buddy,” he said. He pulled the knife from his belt and began sawing through the wet rope. It fell away quickly, and Sheppard’s hands dropped to his chest. Sheppard immediately whimpered and tried to roll onto his side, bringing his arms up.

Ronon put a hand out on his chest to keep him still. “Where does it hurt?”

“Arms,” Sheppard grunted.

“Both?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Right one…worse. And shoulder…”

Ronon imagined Sheppard falling off the side of the cliff again, the rope suddenly snapping him to a stop. He was lucky it was only his arms and shoulders that hurt. Ronon guessed at least one was broken, if not both. He pressed his fingers over Sheppard’s forearm and bit his lip at the hot, swollen skin underneath.

“Probably broken,” he said. He moved to the left arm, dancing his fingers across the skin, but couldn’t feel any major deformities or swelling tissue. It was impossible to tell in this light anyway—and there was little he could do to treat it. “Can’t do much for it right now.”

“I know,” Sheppard whispered.

The right shoulder was dislocated. He could tell that by feel alone. He could also set it back in place, and the sooner he did so the better. He’d done it on himself a handful of times, but his usual method of _as fast as possible_ wouldn’t work tonight. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the medical training he’d had as a new recruit so many years before, what he’d learned over seven years on the run, and the stuff he’d picked up from Beckett and the others on Atlantis. A diagram burned in his mind from so long before was finally dredged up, a picture with little scribbled instructions on how to fix a dislocated shoulder.

“Your shoulder’s dislocated,” Ronon said, glad it was just the one shoulder he had to worry about. The other one was probably sore, but it was still in its socket. “This is gonna hurt, buddy, but you’ve got to stay quiet.”

“’Kay,” Sheppard answered, taking a deep breath.

Ronon grabbed a length of the rope and held it against Sheppard’s mouth. “Bite down on this.”

He did so, and Ronon felt his stomach flip at the instant trust. Did he deserve it after what he’d dragged his friend into? He shook himself out of his thoughts and positioned himself at Sheppard’s side. Fixing the dislocation would be tricky with the badly broken arm. He glanced around again, looking for something to splint it with, even just temporarily. The only possibility was Addis’s long knife, but its sharp serrated edge could end up doing more damage than good.

“Ready?” he asked. He waited for Sheppard’s brief nod then grabbed hold of his arm. Carefully, keeping one hand below the break and another above in his best attempt to keep it stabilized, he bent the arm up at the elbow and twisted it slowly toward Sheppard’s chest, then slowly out in the opposite direction. Sheppard moaned, biting down on the rope. The heels of his boots scraped back and forth across the stone as he tried to keep quiet.

Ronon began rotating the arm again toward the chest. Sheppard’s broken arm was limp in his hands, but the muscles around his shoulder were tight. Sheppard raised his head up with a groan, then dropped back to the ground and turned away from Ronon. Ronon grimaced, resisting the urge to curse at Sheppard’s stubborn streak that seemed to have taken residence in his shoulder, the joint refusing to move back into place. Sheppard was breathing hard but still gritting his teeth against the rope.

The shoulder ground into place with an audible pop as Ronon was rotating the arm out for the third time. Sheppard cried out then immediately went limp, and Ronon watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his eyelids fluttered closed.

“Couldn’t have passed out sooner?” Ronon grumbled. He rotated Sheppard’s arm until it was laying across his chest, and then he scooted back to lean against the wall. There wasn’t anything else he could do at the moment. Sheppard was going to feel like hell in the morning, but they’d have to deal with that when the time came.

He lifted Sheppard just enough to settle the man’s head against his leg, frowning when Sheppard didn’t react to the movement. He was really out. Ronon sighed, closing his own eyes and feeling a wave of exhaustion crash over him. He should probably try to keep Sheppard awake, but that effort seemed suddenly insurmountable. There was little they could do in the dark for now anyway. After seven years of running from the Wraith, Ronon had a vast collection of survival rules and another one was coming into play. There were times to run and evade, times to attack, and times to rest as much as possible.

He would sleep for a few hours, and then he would get Sheppard back to Atlantis.

* * *

The squawk of a seabird jerked Ronon from the doze he’d finally slipped into, and he cracked open his eyes to see sunlight filtering in through the cave entrance. Green water lapped against the rock ledge. He rubbed his eyes and then stretched out his back and neck. His legs were almost numb from sitting on the hard ground for so long, and his lower back twinged.

Sheppard was still asleep. In the bright morning light, Ronon saw his injuries more clearly and he felt a welling of yesterday’s anger build in his chest again. One side of Sheppard’s face was black and blue, an angry swollen knot just above his eye the darkest. Ronon ran through the events of the night before again in his mind. Sheppard had been knocked unconscious when he’d hit he water, and in and out of it afterward.

A concussion, at the very least.

He glanced down at Sheppard’s arms and saw the bruising around his wrists and forearms from where the rope had pulled, the skin rubbed raw. The right arm was definitely broken; a purple lump revealed the exact location of the break. The left arm was bruised but not visibly deformed—still painful looking but hopefully useable. He reached a hand out and tapped the side of Sheppard’s face.

“Sheppard, wake up.”

The man responded right away, scrunching up his face in dismay, and Ronon felt a little of the tension seep out of him. He tapped again, whispering just loud enough to drag his friend out of sleep. Sheppard reacted automatically, raising his arms toward his face. He gasped and froze, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Your arm’s broken.”

“Yeah, got that,” Sheppard breathed out. He took a few more breaths before the pain seemed to dial back enough for him to relax a little and look around. “Where are we?”

“Cave, at the bottom of the cliffs.”

“Right.”

“You remember?”

“Vaguely,” Sheppard groaned, steeling himself to move again. He curled forward, trying to sit up, and Ronon wrapped an arm behind his friend’s back and lifted him then helped him slide back toward the wall. By the time they were done, Sheppard’s face had paled and he was panting again.

“We need to get out of here,” Ronon said.

Sheppard nodded, closing his eyes.

“Can you swim?”

“How far?”

“Don’t know,” Ronon answered. “There’s got to be a break in the cliffs somewhere.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But Sheppard was already trying to sit straighter.

“We can make a sling for your arm with the rope…”

Sheppard nodded, leaning forward enough for Ronon to work. Ronon used the shorter piece that he’d tied around his waist and wrapped it around Sheppard’s upper arm and chest, immobilizing the previously dislocated shoulder. When he touched the broken part of Sheppard’s arm, Sheppard shuddered, crying out.

“Sorry.”

“Just…please, just leave it,” Sheppard begged.

Ronon hesitated, but Sheppard was already scooting toward the edge of the rock ledge. Ronon coiled the longer rope that had been tied to Sheppard and slung it over his shoulder. He kept one hand on Sheppard’s good arm—well, _better_ arm—as the other man slowly slid forward, his teeth clenched shut, and dropped his feet into the water.

They slid off the rock into the lake together. It felt colder than it had the night before, but it was hard to tell. Ronon popped up immediately and shook the water out of his hair then looked around for Sheppard. He could see the man’s hair a few inches below the surface, and he grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him up.

Sheppard came up with a gasp. “Son of a bitch.”

“Can you do this?”

“Wait.”

Through the water, Ronon saw Sheppard using his left arm to lift his right hand and tuck it into the waistband of his pants. Sheppard was breathing hard again, his eyes squeezed shut, but once his arm was secure, he slowly relaxed.

“Sheppard…” Ronon started.

“Let’s go,” Sheppard snapped, reaching out with his left hand as he kicked off against the rock ledge behind them.

Ronon shook his head, following. They paused at the cave entrance for a moment, but when they saw no one waiting for them, they emerged into open water. It was still early in the morning based on the quality of the light and the water was as calm as it had been the day before, which was lucky for them. It made swimming that much easier.

They paddled along the cliff base, looking for a way out of the water and up to the top, but that was proving to be more difficult than Ronon had anticipated. The cliff walls weren’t straight like he’d expected. Instead of running perpendicular to the water, the top of the cliffs slanted outward, creating an angle that would have been impossible to climb without equipment and perfect health. The slight current helped them move, and they half-swam, half-floated in the same southerly direction. Ronon guessed a little over a half hour passed before Sheppard stopped, turned onto his back and let himself float. His face was a bizarre mixture of colors—the bruise more purple than black in the sunlight, his skin pale from pain, and his cheeks red from exertion.

“Buddy, you okay?”

Sheppard had closed his eyes and clamped his left hand over his right arm. He kicked his feet when his body began to sink, barely managing to keep his head above water.

“John?” Ronon reached a hand out, not liking how pale his friend’s face was becoming. The red in his cheeks had faded, and even the bruise seemed duller.

“Sorry, Ronon,” Sheppard answered, his voice barely a whisper. “Not sure I can go much farther.”

Ronon nodded. He’d expected this sooner or later. He slipped the rope off his shoulder and grabbed the loose end, then grabbed Sheppard by his good shoulder. Sheppard’s eyes flew open and he flailed in surprise at Ronon’s touch. A moment later, he snapped his jaw shut against the moan that still slid out.

“Easy, buddy. Got an idea,” Ronon said. He threaded the loose end of the rope around Sheppard’s chest and under his right arm then tied it behind him.

It was a simple idea. He’d give the rope enough slack so he didn’t kick the man, and he’d pull Sheppard through the water as far as they needed to go. Sheppard didn’t need to move his arms, he could stay floating on his back, and he could rest his head against the knot behind him when needed. Sheppard seemed to get the idea as he lifted his arms enough to let the loop of rope settle under his arms. It wouldn’t feel good on his shoulders, but it was better than swimming.

Ronon shook his head; they should have done this from the start. “Tell me if you need a break.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

Ronon grinned, patting the man on the shoulder then cringing at Sheppard’s choked cry. He let two loops of rope fall off his shoulder to give him enough room to swim and then headed out. It was an easy swim, even tugging Sheppard’s dead weight behind him. Sheppard said nothing, but when Ronon glanced back every minute or so to check on him, he could see his friend’s head moving, scanning the cliffs.

They swam for close to two hours this way until they finally caught a break. The cliffs had started to straighten out a while ago and were just finally beginning to slant at a more climbable angle when Sheppard called for a stop. Ronon looked around, spotting a narrow switchback trail scaling the cliff’s side. He followed it back and forth with his eyes, gauging whether it was feasible. It didn’t look manmade—more like an animal trail worn down after years of use.

It would have to do. They’d seen nothing but the occasional shallow cave, though Ronon suspected there were tunnels in some of them that might eventually crawl up to the top. The water was deeper than he would have expected at the base of the cliff, which had been good for them the night before when they hadn’t broken their backs or necks after the fifty foot jump. But even if there were tunnels that led to the top, there was no way to tell where they were from the base of the cliffs. Their best bet was scaling the side, and this was the first trail they’d seen that would allow them to do it.

Ronon swam to the bottom of the path then undid the rope around Sheppard. Without a word, he hefted his friend out of the water and was glad to see Sheppard scramble to his knees without too much trouble. Sheppard climbed a few feet, his right arm still tucked into his waistband and his left reaching out for whatever handholds he could find. Ronon pushed himself out of the water a second later.

“Ready?” Ronon asked when Sheppard didn’t move.

“Just a second,” Sheppard answered. “Little dizzy. Think I might have a concussion.”

“You gonna puke?”

Sheppard glared at him then straightened and began climbing up the trail. Ronon grinned. Some days he knew exactly what buttons to push to get his friend moving. The cliff side was steep, but the trail switched back and forth at least a dozen times, making its ascent gradual and not overly strenuous. It was also wide enough near the bottom, but Ronon noticed that the higher they got, the narrower the path became.

Two-thirds of the way up, Sheppard paused and pressed his head against the stone wall. He was still pale, but his face had turned red again from the climb and sweat dripped down the sides of his face. The sun was directly above them now, the heat of midday beating into them and drying their clothes.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard answered, too quickly and without opening his eyes or looking over at Ronon. “Just…hold on.”

Ronon peered around him. They were at one end of a switchback, ready to head back across. This part of the trail was dangerously narrow—five, maybe six inches. They’d have to hug the wall and slide their feet across. If they lost their balance, there was no room to catch themselves.

“Maybe we should tie ourselves together,” Ronon mused out loud, fingering the rope.

“Why? So I can drag you down with me when I fall?” Sheppard grunted out. “Hell no. Let’s go.”

“Take it slow, Sheppard.”

“Slow is my middle name,” Sheppard mumbled back as he began to creep along the path.

It wasn’t too bad, as long as Ronon stayed on the balls of his feet and kept his center of balance over his toes. He used both hands to hold onto the wall, and stayed as close to Sheppard as possible, always making sure his right hand had a firm hold in case he needed to grab his friend with his left.

“Hole,” Sheppard grunted out, taking a wide step over a gap in the trail that had broken away. By the time they reached the other side, he looked ready to pass out.

“We’re almost there,” Ronon said, looking up toward the top. There were only three switchback trails left. Easy. He kept one hand on Sheppard’s back as the man began to move again, but the rest of the way to the top passed quickly, the path widening out again as they walked.

Sheppard scrambled over the top with one final burst of energy, crawled a few feet away from the edge and collapsed onto his back. Ronon followed, his eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of Addis and his men, but all was quiet.

“Buddy, we’ve got to move,” Ronon said, kneeling next to Sheppard and prodding him.

Sheppard was breathing heavily but he nodded and began pushing himself up with his left arm. Ronon grabbed him, heaving his friend to his feet and holding him steady when he groaned and swayed.

“We can hide in the trees; then I can splint that arm.”

Sheppard said nothing, letting Ronon guide him into the jungle. Within minutes, they were pushing through the thick underbrush, and Ronon relaxed. They’d been out in the open for so long. The thick trees gave them cover, and an opportunity to stop and gather themselves.

He spotted a fallen tree off to the side and guided Sheppard to it, letting Sheppard lean on him as they both sat down. Sheppard sagged against the trunk and closed his eyes. Ronon glanced down at the swollen arm sitting in his lap and pushed to his feet.

“What? Where—” Sheppard started to ask, jerking his eyes open.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ronon said. “We need to splint your arm.”

Sheppard relaxed again but kept his eyes open. The jungle had been quiet as they’d hiked through it, but now that they’d stopped moving, Ronon heard animals moving around again. Birds sang and whistled in the trees above him and insects buzzed through the humidity. He gathered the straightest sticks he could find then moved back to Sheppard’s side.

“I could try to straighten the bone,” he started then stopped when Sheppard turned an almost grayish-white. “Never mind. Beckett can handle that.”

“Good call,” Sheppard said. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought.”

“Sit up,” Ronon ordered, pulling Sheppard up before the man could respond. “We need to take your shirt off and use it to cushion your arm.”

Sheppard grunted but allowed Ronon to untie the rope pinning his arm to his side and then lean him forward. Ronon peeled the t-shirt off him, pulling it up to his armpits before wrestling it over his head as gently as possible. Even so, Sheppard still cried out, listing to the side as Ronon worked the material over his shoulders and broken arm.

“All done,” he said, easing his friend back up and leaning him against the tree. Sheppard’s eyes were closed, his arm cradled against his chest, and he was panting in deep, desperate gasps. A drop of sweat slid down the side of his face, his skin deathly pale.

“Sheppard?”

Sheppard grunted in response, cracking open his eyes. Ronon smiled, reaching a hand out to squeeze his shoulder, but he stopped, changing his mind at the last minute and patting him on the leg instead. He pulled out his knife and sliced through the t-shirt, ripping two strips off the shirt along the bottom hem.

“I liked that shirt,” Sheppard said, his eyes now open. He was giving Ronon a sullen glare.

“You have fifteen more at home.”

“I like all of my shirts.”

“Stop whining,” Ronon said. Moving as gently as he could, he pulled Sheppard’s arm away from his body and wrapped the rest of the t-shirt around it, then grabbed two of the straight sticks he’d found and bound them below and above the break with one of the strips. Sheppard grimaced, breathing fast throughout the entire process and Ronon grit his teeth, angry at the amount of pain this was causing his friend.

“Almost done,” he whispered. He set Sheppard’s arm down then shed his own long sleeve shirt. The skin on Sheppard’s palms were red and blistered, rope burns from his swing off the cliff. They looked painful, but he had obviously grabbed the rope as close to his wrists as possible, and very little of the rope had ripped across his palms and fingers. He spread the shirt out on the ground in front of him but hesitated, the knife poised to slice through the shirt tail.

“Not the same when it’s your shirt, huh?” Sheppard grumped.

Ronon scowled, ripping two strips off the bottom of his shirt and setting them to the side. He wrapped the rest of the shirt around the now splinted arm and tied the sleeves around Sheppard’s neck. The fabric was damp, but by the time he was done, Sheppard’s right arm was secured in the makeshift sling, and his shoulder immobilized once again with the short rope tied around his arm and chest. Sheppard sighed in relief, then stiffened when Ronon wrapped the strips from his shirt around both of Sheppard’s hands, covering the worst of the rope burns.

“How’s your other arm?” he asked when he had finished.

Sheppard opened his eyes and looked down at his left arm. The bruising had grown darker and covered most of his forearm and wrist, but it wasn’t nearly as swollen. “Hurts, but not as much as the other one.”

“Is it broken?”

“Can’t tell. I need at least one arm free, though.”

“Can you move your hand at all?”

Sheppard did, curling his fingers slowly into a ball, but the effort was obviously painful and his fingers relaxed almost immediately. Ronon shook his head. It could be a break or a sprain, or it could just be a deep bruise. What was the expression Sheppard’s people used? Better safe than sorry—something along those lines. He’d ripped off two strips from Sheppard’s t-shirt for a reason. He grabbed two more sticks and used the second strip to splint the left arm.

“Ronon—” Sheppard started.

“Shut up,” Ronon answered. He finished the job quickly, wishing he could have made the splint more secure, but it would have to do. “Don’t have a sling for that one, unless you want me to tie it up with the rope.”

“Go away,” Sheppard muttered.

Ronon grinned, patting him on the leg. He dug into his hair and pulled out a small knife. It wasn’t much in the way of defense but better than nothing. He wrapped Sheppard’s fingers around the hilt and stood up. “Stay here. I’m going to see if I can find us some food. Or water.”

Sheppard didn’t answer, just nodded. The man looked exhausted. Ronon stifled a sigh and pulled out Addis’s knife. He glanced around the thick woods, listening to the steady murmur of the jungle. When Sheppard seemed to slip back into a doze, Ronon began exploring the immediate area. The priority was water, but food was a close second. He’d managed to ignore the empty gnawing feeling in his gut while they were in the water, but now it was screaming for attention. It had been a long time since Ronon had felt that kind of hunger. He’d gotten spoiled over the last year.

It didn’t take long for him to spot the smooth bark and narrow trunk of a buah tree. He smiled, looking up into the branches at a dozen clumps of the fist-sized fruits. If he was going to be forced to survive somewhere, a jungle would be high up on his list. He’d come across these trees during his first year on the run, and had found the trees on a number of different worlds, all with the same climate.

He jumped, grabbing onto the nearest tree branch and swung himself up. Moments later, he was poking at the fruit. Buah fruit, from the buah tree—that’s what that old woman who’d taken him in that night had called them. He’d left within hours with a sack full, and the supply of fruits had fed him for a week. The fruits hanging in the first clump weren’t quite ripe, clinging tenaciously to their branch. Ronon climbed higher and shook the next bundle, grinning when three of the shell-covered melons dropped immediately to the ground. He shook it again and coaxed one more piece to drop.

Ronon knew a lot of villages near buah trees used the scaly, lime-green shells for bowls, cups, and other tools. He climbed higher, shaking as many clumps of fruit as he could until at least a dozen lay scattered around the base, all the while wondering if there was something he could do with the shells—some kind of weapon he could fashion. Eventually, he slid to the bottom branch then dropped silently to ground, gathered up the fruits and made his way back to Sheppard.

His smile of triumph faltered as he approached his friend and he felt a stab of anxiety. Sheppard was pale, hardly moving. The bruising on one side of his face almost masked the dark circles under his eyes, but Ronon could still see his face was drawn in exhaustion and pain. Ronon dropped the fruit on the ground next to him, and shook his head in dismay when Sheppard didn’t even stir.

“Sheppard, buddy,” Ronon said, gently shaking his good shoulder.

Sheppard jerked awake, flying upright and startling Ronon. Ronon yanked his hand back but forced himself to take a deep breath and grab onto Sheppard’s shoulder again.

“John, it’s just me,” he said, his voice even and calm.

Sheppard was breathing hard, spittle flying from his lips. He blinked and slowly turned to face Ronon. “Hey,” he whispered. He sagged backward, and Ronon gripped his shoulder harder to keep him from sliding off the trunk and to the ground.

“You okay?”

Sheppard nodded, swallowing like he was trying to slow down his breathing. “Fell asleep.”

Ronon sat down next to him and handed him back the small knife then pointed to the fruit. “Found some food,” he said as he grabbed one. He smashed the shell against a rock then used his knife to flick the broken pieces out.

“Could really use some water.”

“It’s buah fruit,” Ronon said, showing Sheppard the hole in the shell he’d dug out. “Lots of juice.”

Moisture pooled around the opening, making Ronon’s mouth water. After spending most of the night and half the day in water, he would have thought that was the last thing he wanted to see, but they hadn’t exactly drunk the lake water. Sheppard raised his less-broken left arm toward the fruit but Ronon kept a hold of it, bringing it to Sheppard’s mouth and tilting it just enough so Sheppard could suck the juice out.

“Not bad,” Sheppard said, breaking off a moment later to take a breath. Juice dripped down the sides of his chin. “Like watery honey, maybe not so sweet.”

Ronon nodded, jamming his knife into the fruit and sawing through the rest of the shell. It split in half, revealing a soft pink melon inside. He sliced the fruit into long strips to make it easier for Sheppard to eat on his own, and then handed him one of the halves. While Sheppard dug into his food with the small knife, Ronon inhaled the other half.

They ate four between the two of them, and by the time they were finished, Sheppard looked a little better. Less pale and exhausted. Ronon sliced off a long piece of rope and tied it into something vaguely resembling a net.

“I’m a little fuzzy on where we’re at,” Sheppard said, watching Ronon work. “Any idea how far we are from the gate?”

Ronon tugged on the rope, frowning. There had to be an easier way to carry their fruit but this would have to do. He glanced up at Sheppard as he began placing the remaining large melons inside. “Never saw the gate, but I’m guessing it can’t be far from their camp. We should head north, back the direction we came.”

“Sounds dangerous. Can’t imagine Addis and his soldier friends will just give up on us.”

“Probably not.” Ronon lifted the newly fashioned bag and examined it. The fruit was too big to slip through any of the holes in the net. It wasn’t pretty, but it should work. He stared at the discarded half shells, wondering again if they might need them, then shook his head. They had more whole shells if the need arose. He sliced off a length of rope and tied it to the net like a handle, then slung the entire thing over his shoulder. “We’ll stay in the trees, move slow. You ready to go, or do you need another nap?” He said it with a smile, waiting for Sheppard’s trademark scowl.

Sheppard rolled his eyes. “Another nap sounds great, but I’d prefer to take it on Atlantis. Help me up.”

Ronon pulled him to his feet, grateful when the man didn’t sway or falter. They had a lot of ground to cover, and the farther Sheppard could go under his own power, the better chance they had. They began hiking, and Ronon used Addis’s long knife like a machete, hacking through the underbrush. He’d seen something like this in one of the Earth movies, but he couldn’t remember what the story was about. He just remembered the man swinging his arm, up and down, up and down, and the bushes and branches falling to the sides as he carved out his path.

“Break,” Sheppard breathed out behind him.

Ronon froze mid-swing and looked around. He’d lost himself in the rhythmic hacking and had no idea how long they’d been walking. The sky overhead was bright blue, but the sun had definitely moved. Hours had passed—two, maybe three. The landscape hadn’t changed at all, still the same thick green foliage all around them. They could have been standing still that entire time, but he knew they’d been moving forward. He might have been able to crawl faster than they were walking, but they had still been moving.

He turned around and saw Sheppard leaning against a tree. He was red-faced and sweaty, breathing hard like he’d been running the entire time. Sheppard raised his left hand to his face, digging his thumb into his eyes.

Ronon dug into his rope bag and pulled out another piece of fruit. He smashed the shell against a tree trunk then sliced it in half, handing one piece to Sheppard. Sheppard sucked the juice up eagerly.

“Damn hot here,” Sheppard said a minute later, chucking his empty shell into the bushes.

Ronon glanced up, catching a glimpse of blue skies through the canopy of trees. “Might cool down a little at night.”

“Hopefully we’re not around to find out.”

Ronon wiped his arm across his forehead and eyed Sheppard. The man was still leaning against the tree, but the fruit and liquid seemed to have given him a much needed energy boost. It had given them both an energy boost.

“How are your arms?”

“Could use some of Beckett’s magic pills right now,” Sheppard grunted, but he pushed himself away from the tree with only a slight wince. “We should keep moving. You good?”

“I’m good,” Ronon answered. He raised his knife again and swiped at the small branch in front of him, feeling a surge of deep satisfaction as the blade sliced cleanly through it.

* * *

They stumbled across the gate almost by accident. Ronon knew they were heading in the right direction, but his plan had been to find the camp then find a path from there. He smiled, relieved to be skipping ahead to the part where they just escaped through the gate and landed back in Atlantis by nightfall.

There were four guards standing around the DHD in the small clearing, although he couldn’t discount the possibility of more men hiding in the trees. They hadn’t run into anyone in the woods, making him think Addis was still searching along the cliffs. Ronon crouched down and glanced at Sheppard as he crawled up next to him.

“ _How many?_ ” he mouthed.

Ronon held out four fingers and then signaled Sheppard to crawl back the way they’d come. They couldn’t go running into the clearing without a plan. Ronon was armed only with the knife. They had to even up the odds a little first. When they’d crawled about thirty feet back into the thick jungle, they stopped and Ronon shed his bag of fruit.

“We need a plan,” Sheppard whispered.

Ronon nodded, glancing around. He used the knife to saw off a couple of thin, low-hanging branches then proceeded to whittle the ends into points.

“Spears?” Sheppard asked. He’d settled against the base of a tree and hadn’t moved much, looking worn out again. “I’m pretty sure they’ve got guns, big guy.”

“You got a better plan?” Ronon returned, still whittling.

Sheppard didn’t answer right away, and Ronon glanced up. Sheppard was chewing on his lip, his gaze distant as his mind raced through their options.

“You said there were four of them?”

“Four that were visible, in the clearing.”

“We need to draw them away from the gate.”

Ronon slid his knife back into his waistband, nodding. “You hide as close as you can get. I’ll draw them away while you get to the DHD and dial a safe planet.”

“And how are you going to draw all four of them away at the same time?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I don’t like this. What are you going to do once you get them away from the clearing? You just gonna go all Rambo on them?”

“What planet should we dial, in case we get separated?” Ronon asked, ignoring Sheppard.

Sheppard sighed, biting his lip. “Athos? There’s no one there anymore, should be safe. From there, we can dial the Alpha site.” He drew the symbols in the dirt for Ronon then wiped them out when Ronon nodded.

“I still don’t see how this is going to work,” Sheppard whispered as they began creeping back toward the gate. “Maybe we should try to create some kind of diversion.”

“Sshhh,” Ronon hissed, throwing a look over his shoulder. Sheppard was glaring at him, but he would deal with that later. He’d tried to think of a distraction that would work with their limited inventory, but short of throwing fruit at the guards, he’d come up with nothing. And Sheppard wasn’t in any shape to do much more than hide and punch buttons on the DHD.

They crawled into a ditch running along the side of the clearing and poked their heads up over the edge. A line of bushes kept them hidden, but Ronon saw the four guards wandering around the DHD talking to each other and staring out occasionally into the woods. He still had no plan, other than to show himself and start running. He glanced at Sheppard and frowned at the man’s pale complexion. Sheppard was lying on his side, and Ronon could just see the fingers of his right arm at the edge of the sling. They looked bruised and swollen. Sheppard was staring at the gate, but leaning his head against his left arm, which was stretched out in front of him and still clutching the small knife.

As they watched, another man appeared from a path off to the side, and Ronon guessed it must lead back to the camp. The new man jabbed his arms around the clearing as he spoke, and the men straightened. A moment later, the man pointed to two of the guards, who nodded and disappeared into the woods toward the camp at a jog. Ronon strained his ears, but the sound of the men moving back into the jungle disappeared quickly.

That left three guards—much better odds. He turned toward Sheppard with a grin then froze. Sheppard was staring back at him, smiling, but the expression slowly dropped from his face at Ronon’s look.

“ _What?_ ” Sheppard mouthed.

Ronon shifted his gaze to stare pointedly at a long, yellow snake sliding down a tree trunk, its head bobbing in the air as if sniffing them out. As it detached from the tree to settle on the ground, dozens of thin crab legs unfolded from underneath its body, undulating as the creature moved through the dead leaves and dirt without a sound.

Sheppard turned then stiffened at the sight. The snake-lizard thing was less than a foot from his outstretched hand. He was holding the small knife Ronon had given him, but the creature looked to be as long as Sheppard’s body and as thick around as one of Ronon’s arms. The thin blade was not much of a defense.

Sheppard lay perfectly still, and Ronon wondered if he was even breathing. The little knife wouldn’t do much, but Addis’s knife would chop the thing in half with one swipe. The creature’s head bobbed as it inched closer, and Ronon slid back into the ditch and pushed away from the ground with the knife in one hand and the spears in the other.

The snake—because it looked a lot more like a snake than a lizard—bumped its nose against Sheppard’s hand. Sheppard shuddered, though he managed not to make any noise in the process. Ronon stepped over his legs as he crept closer, and glanced at the guards in the clearing. They’d spread out a little after the new man had shown up, but they were looking at each other again and talking, clearly bored with gate guard duty.

Sheppard jerked and Ronon dropped to the ground instantly. He grabbed onto Sheppard’s leg as it kicked out, and looked up at the snake. The creature had clamped down on Sheppard’s hand, its legs stretched out on either side of it as Sheppard began to thrash.

“Don’t move,” Ronon hissed, glancing up at the guards in the clearing again. They’d stopped talking and were looking around, tilting their heads at the sound of Sheppard kicking and writhing.

“Aaarggh!” The cry finally broke through. Sheppard clamped his mouth shut almost as soon as he’d uttered the sound and pressed his face into the dirt, but it was too late. The guards were walking toward them with weapons raised.

Ronon reacted without thinking, jumping back into the deep underbrush and disappearing into the jungle. He tightened his grip on his knife as he moved, drawing upon every hunting skill he’d ever learned. He felt his body melt into his surroundings. Sheppard’s grunts and kicks sounded louder, the noise foreign and blaring in the jungle environment. Birds he hadn’t noticed were twittering, jumping from branch to branch and flapping their wings against the heavy humid air.

He hadn’t abandoned Sheppard. He crawled quickly, circling away from his friend but keeping him within hearing distance. He heard the swish of the guards’ clothes now, and the click of weapons engaging.

“What’s this?” a man cried out, his voice rough but triumphant. Ronon heard bushes and leaves being kicked out of the way, and then Sheppard’s struggle quieted though didn’t disappear completely.

“That beast is huge,” another man said, his voice higher pitched, disgusted. “I haven’t seen one that big.”

“Sshhh,” a third voice hissed out, and Ronon could only tell it wasn’t the first man because of where the voice was coming from. Farther back, still in the clearing, and cautious. This one was still watching his surroundings.

“Addis is gonna love this,” the first man said. Ronon heard the sound of a knife being pulled out of a sheath. A long knife. A second later, he heard the whistle as the blade sliced through the air, and then a thud.

“Ah, sick,” the second man said. “I hate their legs. All those little finger legs creepy crawling through the jungle.”

Beneath the two men talking, Ronon heard Sheppard panting and felt relief flood through him. Sheppard was still alive. Ronon had stopped at the sound of the knife being pulled, but he started moving again, circling wider. He had to get to the other side, fast. Sheppard and the snake creature had inadvertently provided the diversion their plan had needed, and Ronon couldn’t let it go to waste.

“Grab him, get him out of the bushes,” the third man ordered.

There was more scuffling, but the sound was fainter the farther Ronon moved.

“Nah, leave it,” the first man suddenly called out. “Addis’ll love seeing that creature’s head still latched onto his hand.”

Ronon had two spears and a knife. The spears were sharp but flimsy, the wood still green. He had briefly imagined throwing them at the guards, but the chances of missing were too great, and he’d give himself away.

“Wonder where Dex is?” the second man asked, his voice sounding strained. Ronon crept closer to the clearing and saw that he had made it almost to the exact opposite point. The men were dragging Sheppard along the ground by his left arm and waistband, letting his feet drag behind him. Sheppard’s head hung as they walked, but Ronon heard the barely stifled cries of pain as they moved and knew his friend was still conscious.

They dumped him in front of the DHD and rolled him onto his back. The yellow head of the snake creature was still clamped onto Sheppard’s hand, its teeth buried in both the bandage and the flesh of his palm. One of them nudged it with a laugh. Sheppard was trembling, his bare chest slick with sweat, but he turned his head toward the man—the second voice, Ronon guessed—and glared at him.

“Go get Addis,” Third Voice commanded—the new man—as he jerked his head toward the path. Ronon faded back into the jungle, moving as fast as he dared. He heard Second Voice laughing again as he walked back toward the trees.

It would have been an easy kill. Ronon burst onto the path behind the man and had his knife at his throat before Second Voice even had a chance to turn around, but the thought that the man he was about to kill was Satedan flashed through his mind at the last minute. He turned his blade away from Second Voice’s throat and clubbed him on the side of the head instead. Then, as quietly as he could, he dragged the body back into the jungle, well out of sight.

 _One down, two more._ He glanced down the path toward the camp but saw no one coming. He melted back into the trees and began circling toward the gate.

A scream ripped through the trees and Ronon quickened his pace. When he arrived on the edge of the clearing, he clenched his teeth to stifle the war cry fighting its way out of him. Anger flooded through his system, but Ronon had long ago learned how to use the adrenaline that came with the emotion.

“Where’s Dex?” Third Voice asked, his voice low and intense. “It will hurt a lot less if you tell me now.” He had Sheppard on the ground with his injured left arm and snake creature head stretched out to the side. Third Voice’s foot was poised over the splint, and as he spoke, he leaned forward, digging the ball of it into Sheppard’s arm.

Sheppard arched, pulling in vain against the pressure. When Third Voice leaned back, Sheppard collapsed, and Ronon saw his chest heaving up and down in desperate breaths. First Voice stood near Sheppard’s feet, his back to Ronon, watching the spectacle.

Ronon knew the scream would attract attention, and the other men from the camp would come quickly. He tightened his grip on his knife and the two spears and launched himself across the clearing. The men were a good twenty feet away, but their attention was focused on Sheppard as Third Voice began leaning his weight onto Sheppard’s arm again.

Sheppard screamed just as Ronon reached them, and First Voice yelped in surprise at almost the exact same time, looking down at his chest toward the two wooden points protruding out of him. Ronon jerked him back and pushed him to the side. He didn’t stop to check the body, knowing the spears, crude as they were, had done the job. He raised Addis’s knife in front of him and lunged just as Third Voice spun around.

“Heard you were looking for me,” Ronon snarled. The man had a gun in his hand, and it took a second for Ronon to recognize his blaster, set on kill. Third Voice’s eyes widened as the two came face to face, and Ronon slashed down with the knife with the same hacking movement he’d been doing all morning.

The attack was over almost as soon as it had started. Third Voice dropped to the ground, writhing—not dead, but bleeding heavily. Ronon hadn’t cut completely through the arm, but it was close. He stared, horrified, as blood darkened the man’s sleeve and side of his shirt almost instantly. The man’s thrashing grew visibly weaker and Ronon forced himself to turn away from the sight.

He dropped to his knees next to Sheppard. The adrenaline was rushing out of him, leaving behind a sick, shaky churning in his gut. He knew that feeling well too, as familiar as the sensation of raw adrenaline had been, but he pushed it back. They weren’t safe yet.

“Sheppard,” he called out, reaching a hand out to Sheppard’s chest to get his attention.

Sheppard’s eyes were rolling in his head as he struggled to stay conscious, but he turned at the sound of Ronon’s voice and sagged a little more into the ground. “Ronon?”

His voice was barely audible, but it was enough. Ronon heard a distant shout and with a mumbled apology, lifted Sheppard’s body and slung him over his shoulders. Sheppard moaned then fell completely limp. Out of the corner of his eye, Ronon saw his blaster still clutched in Third Voice’s now limp hand, and he grabbed it. He tucked it into his waistband and surged to his feet, adrenaline pounding through him again at the sound of shouting and pounding feet behind him. Ronon punched in the address for Athos and ran for the open gate, flying through the event horizon as Addis’s men exploded into the clearing behind him.

* * *

They passed through Athos and the Alpha site in a blur, and when they stepped out onto Atlantis’s cool gate room, Ronon could still feel the adrenaline of the fight and chase coursing through him, the sound of Addis’s men echoing in his mind and combining with new shouts and pounding feet. He lifted his blaster, startled, seeing the jungle again—the thick trees and heavy underbrush, the snake-lizard creature, the gate guards torturing Sheppard.

“Ronon!”

McKay’s squawk jerked him out of it, and the gate room reappeared in front of his eyes. He was breathing heavily, almost gasping, and the hand holding the blaster was beginning to shake. He shook his head, but his arm refused to relax and lower the weapon.

“Ronon?” Teyla’s softer voice came at him from the side, and he jerked his head around. Safe. They were safe. He saw a handful of Marines standing around him in a loose semi-circle, their weapons lowered but their bodies tense, ready to snap into action at a moment’s notice. A medical team was just entering, the gurney wheels clattering in the suddenly quiet room. McKay was in front of him, eyeing the blaster with undisguised terror, but Teyla was off to the side holding out her hands, her face a confusing mixture of relief, joy and apprehension.

“Ronon,” she said again, a little louder. She took another step toward him.

Ronon’s breaths shuddered in his chest as a new sheen of sweat slicked his body. He was safe. He was in Atlantis. His mind screamed at him to relax but he was locked up. He’d experienced this feeling, many times—even before he’d become a runner. He felt Teyla’s hand on his arm, pushing it down and easing the blaster from his grip, and he let her do it. Relieved that she could do it, because he wasn’t sure he could. Not yet.

“Ronon, lad,” Beckett called out, now approaching him. The tension in the room had visibly dissipated as soon as Teyla had disarmed him and Ronon latched onto it, letting his own adrenaline high leach out of him.

The doctor was at his side, one hand on his arm and one around Sheppard’s wrist, feeling for the pulse. “I need to help the colonel.”

 _Sheppard._ He was suddenly aware of the man slung over his shoulders, unmoving and limp in his grasp. He saw him flying over the edge of the cliff again, heard him screaming out in pain as the rope grew taut. He’d held Sheppard in the lake as he’d choked up water, forced him to swim with a broken arm and dislocated shoulder, dragged him through the jungle, used him as a diversion to get through the gate.

He felt his knees begin to fold but he locked them with a grunt. He nodded at the doctor, but before he could take a step, Beckett had signaled the gurney over and was pulling at Sheppard’s body. He relented, bending forward and easing his friend into their hands.

“Broke one arm, maybe two, dislocated his shoulder. Rope burns—he fell off a cliff, smashed his head. Something…snake or lizard…bit his hand. Thought he had a concussion. He was dizzy. We didn’t have water. Gate was guarded; they were standing on his arm…”

He heard himself rambling, the words a soft murmur he wasn’t sure anyone was actually listening to. Sheppard was stretched out on the gurney, still unconscious, and they were racing through the hallways toward the infirmary. He didn’t remember leaving the gate room, but he had one hand on Sheppard’s leg as the medical team raced through the halls, and he tightened his grip.

This was his fault. He had brought this upon his friend.

When they burst through the doors of the infirmary, the medical staff began wheeling Sheppard away and Ronon suddenly found Beckett standing in front of him, pushing him back. He shook his head.

“No!” he screamed as he lost his grip on Sheppard’s leg and his friend disappeared behind a flurry of personnel.

“Ronon, you’re home. You’re safe. Let us take care of him now.” The doctor was holding onto both arms, pleading. Behind him, he heard Teyla and McKay catch up and burst into the room, and then Teyla’s smaller hand was on his back.

“Ronon, you brought him home. Whatever happened is over.”

The shaky sick feeling was back, the aftermath of a fight to the death. They’d won. They’d made it. He felt himself beginning to tremble and he might have cursed that so many people were here to witness it, but at the moment all he could do was keep his legs underneath him.

Not even that. His legs suddenly folded and he felt himself sagging to the ground in exhaustion. Beckett’s arms tightened their grip, and more hands joined his as they lowered him to the floor. He heard shouts for help and a barrage of questions directed at him, but the voices dimmed and he let himself go.

* * *

He jerked awake, rolling off the bed and clamping his mouth shut against a scream. He was in the corner of a room—his room, on Atlantis—crouching behind a table with a knife held out in front of him before he was fully awake and aware.

They’d made it. He’d gotten Sheppard home. His heart was still beating frantically in his chest and he pressed his hand against it as if that would calm it down. Nothing moved in the room. It was all dark shadows, a clear indication of night. At least several hours before dawn, if he had to guess.

Nightmarish images floated behind his eyes, scenes of his battle on Sateda as the Wraith attacked, of his men dropping around him no matter what he did or how much he fought. These dreams hadn’t been this vivid since his first year as a runner. He dragged a hand across his face and forced his other hand to drop and loosen its death grip on his knife. A moment later, he crawled back to the bed and sat on the edge.

He set the knife on the nightstand next to him, then felt his stomach twist at the sight of the serrated blade. It wasn’t Addis’s knife; it wasn’t nearly as long and the hilt was different, more ornate. Still, the blade was just as balanced, the edge just as sharp. He turned away from it and took a deep breath, but the sick feeling remained.

A tray of food sat on the table near the door, and he walked over to it. He’d collapsed in the infirmary and slept for hours, then been released to his room. McKay and Teyla had been there. He’d eaten a tray of food under Beckett’s watchful eyes, but he remembered McKay running off to get another one as Teyla helped him back to his room.

Sheppard had been in surgery when he’d woken up that first time, and despite everyone’s assurance that he was going to be fine and that the surgery was minor, Ronon had resisted. He’d wanted to see Sheppard then but had collapsed in his bed, the short trip from the infirmary to his room wearing him out. He’d sunk into sleep almost as soon as he’d lain down despite his best efforts to fight it off.

He was awake now. Wide awake. He could feel adrenaline beginning to pump through his body again as his thoughts returned to the jungle planet. Addis. Sateda. _The survivors._ How many had he killed? How many of his own people had he murdered? There was only three hundred of them left to begin with, and now…at least one less than that, probably two. Maybe more.

He turned away from the table and began pacing the room, the space confining. They’d been loyal to Kell, possibly even part of his plan to escape Sateda, but…they were Satedan. They were still his people. If there were thousands of survivors, maybe things would be different. Maybe he wouldn’t mind taking out some of the lowest dregs of his former society. With only a few hundred Satedans remaining, though, they were an endangered civilization.

The energy was building in his gut, tightening every muscle. He had to get out of here, he had to run. To stop thinking. Sheppard would still be asleep or unconscious, and the nurses and doctors on staff would not let him through to visit in the middle of the night. He’d have to sneak past them, and he was too hyped up at the moment for that.

He was out his door and running through the halls seconds later, but even as he sprinted, he could tell this wasn’t going to be enough. He shifted direction, heading for the gym. It should be empty this time of night. Beneath the powerful thrum of adrenaline, he felt anger surge through him and his hands balled into fists. Images from his nightmare of the Wraith attack on Sateda merged with new memories of the jungle planet, of him and Sheppard struggling to survive, of his fellow Satedans falling to the ground, dead by his hand.

He screamed into the dark room and went straight to a punching bag. The thud of his fists against the bag mingled with his hoarse shouts and heavy breathing. When his skin broke over his knuckles and blood dripped from his hands, he started to kick. He threw his shoulder into the bag over and over again, and the pain in his hands fade to numbness. Rather than dissipate, the anger-fueled energy continued to build in his chest, and he pummeled the punching bag until all thoughts, all memories, dissolved into nothing, and it was just him and the bag and the repetitive, almost rhythmic thud of flying fists and feet.

* * *

It was less than an hour before dawn, when Ronon finally padded into the infirmary and slipped unnoticed past the nurses’ station. The energy was gone, as was the overriding numbness. His hands throbbed and he flexed his fingers with a grimace. He’d rinsed the blood off but they were still red and raw, and new blood was already beginning to dry and scab over. He should probably have someone look at them, but he wanted to see Sheppard first.

The colonel’s bed was at the far end near the windows, giving him a little more privacy than some of the beds closer to the entryway and Beckett’s office. As expected, Sheppard was sound asleep, propped up at a slight angle on a mound of pillows cushioning his arms and shoulders. In the dim light of the infirmary, Ronon could see that the lines of pain that had been etched into his face on the jungle planet had finally smoothed out. An IV ran into his left arm, delivering much needed painkillers.

Ronon eased himself into the chair next to Sheppard’s bed and leaned back. He closed his eyes, swallowing against a tightening throat. Seeing Sheppard alive if not completely well drained what little energy he had remaining in his body and he sagged against the chair. Sheppard was home, but was he? Was Atlantis home? He flashed to the memory of Addis accusing him of forsaking his people and his world—the ultimate betrayal. As a runner, when he wasn’t fighting or scavenging for food or evading the Wraith, his thoughts had always drifted back to Sateda, to what might have been left behind. To his family, the house he’d grown up in, the apartment he’d shared with Melena. To his friends and fellow soldiers. The end of his seven year race had always been Sateda.

And then Sheppard had come along, freeing him of his nightmare and inadvertently destroying his dream when they’d sent their MALP to his devastated and abandoned world.

Ronon shook his head, shoving the memories to the back of his mind. When had he last thought of Sateda as it was when he was growing up? His family had become Sheppard and Teyla, even McKay. At the end of missions, his thoughts were always on returning to Atlantis, on meals in the mess hall, on running across the piers with Sheppard and sparring with Teyla and watching Earth movies with the other Marines. He heard Addis’s voice again, accusing him of forsaking Sateda, and he bit down on his lip to stifle the cry of anger so near the surface. His home was Sateda—it always would be—but some time in the last year, his life had become Atlantis.

“Whattimezzitt?” a soft voice mumbled, and Ronon schooled his face, looking up at Sheppard only when he felt the anger drop from his expression.

Not that Sheppard would have noticed. In the near dark of the infirmary, Ronon could just see the man blinking groggily at the ceiling, still more asleep than awake.

“Don’t know,” Ronon answered, keeping his voice low. “Early.”

Sheppard yawned then rolled his head toward Ronon. “Why are you up?”

“Not tired.” He pointed toward Sheppard’s arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah, guess so. Doc says I’ll heal back to normal eventually.” Sheppard lifted his left arm, wrapped in a heavy blue cast from his knuckles down to his elbow. “The heavy carrying your blaster broke my arm—Beckett said it was only _nearly broken_ before that.” He paused, twisting his arm to look at the side of his hand. “At least that snake thing wasn’t venomous, not that that made it hurt any less.”

“What about your other arm?” Ronon knew the surgery had been for the right arm, to straighten the bone. That arm was also in a cast, this one reaching past his elbow and stuck in a heavy looking sling.

“Clean break, but I guess it took some work lining the bones back up. The shoulder will take the longest to heal—lots of PT in my future.”

Ronon nodded. He’d heard all of this before from Beckett, but it felt good to hear it from Sheppard. He leaned back in the chair and threw his legs up on the rails against the side of the bed. He flexed his hand, rubbing raw knuckles with his thumbs.

Sheppard was watching him, and his eyes narrowed on Ronon’s hands. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Ronon answered, forcing his hands to his side.

“Bull,” Sheppard mumbled. He squirmed in the bed, repositioning his sling with a wince, then glanced over at Ronon again. “You destroyed another punching bag, didn’t you?”

Ronon said nothing, but he kept his gaze locked on Sheppard’s face.

“Damn,” Sheppard muttered. “Lorne is gonna be pissed when he finds out.”

The sky outside was starting to lighten as dawn approached. Ronon felt the fatigue in his arms and back from pulverizing the punching bag, but he also felt the twitch of muscles yearning to be pushed to their limits, bolts of electricity running down his legs and up his spine. In a few more hours, the building energy would drive him back to the gym or at a full sprint across Atlantis to one of the farther piers.

Too much had happened in the last couple of days—more than he could work off by sparring or running. He’d spent almost a year searching for the remnants of his people, and then he’d found… He didn’t know what he’d found, or who. Men loyal to Kell. Men who claimed to be Satedan but who’d acted like anything but the Satedans Ronon had known. Men who had tortured an innocent stranger in order to avenge a dishonest and dishonorable man.

“So,” Sheppard said and Ronon started, not realizing his friend was still awake. Sheppard was staring at his lap and picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “You okay?”

Sheppard asked him if he was okay all the time, but rarely like this. Ronon felt the weight behind the question. He’d known Sheppard would ask him about this eventually, sometime when they were alone, but he had no answer. He probably wasn’t okay, if the state of the punching bag was anything to go by, but he wasn’t not okay either—and the contradiction made no sense to him.

His people were out there. Addis and his men had talked about them as if they ran into them all the time.

“Ronon—” Sheppard started, then coughed, then grimaced at the jerking movement it caused in his arms and shoulders.

Ronon stood automatically and grabbed the pitcher of water on the side of the bed. He poured a glass and held it out to Sheppard.

“I got it.”

But he didn’t. He had one free arm, and it was encased in a cast up to his knuckles, with more bandages wrapped around his fingers. Ronon held on, ignoring the scowl Sheppard was shooting at him. After a couple of long sips, Sheppard leaned back with a sigh and Ronon returned the glass to the nightstand.

“You did what you had to do to survive,” Sheppard said.

Ronon stiffened, shaking his head. He’d been forced into a survival situation—he’d killed at least one Satedan, maybe more. Would someone want to avenge their deaths? He’d done everything he could to avoid it and still save himself and Sheppard, but what if he found the three hundred survivors and they wanted nothing to do with him?

Sheppard was staring at him, waiting for a response. Ronon was still standing, staring down at the glass of water on the nightstand. He forced himself to step back and sit down in the chair. His hands had curled automatically into fists and he had the urge to hit something again, and it took a moment for him to relax his hands. The skin over a couple of the knuckles split, and blood welled up.

Ronon glanced from his hands to Sheppard’s face then back to his hands, shrugging.

Sheppard didn’t push. “Thanks, buddy, for getting me home.”

Ronon nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sheppard nod back and settle into his mound of pillows. He looked almost as exhausted as he had on the planet, and Ronon knew he needed to let the man get some rest. He’d propped his legs up again on the side of Sheppard’s bed, but he dropped his feet heavily to the floor.

“We should probably talk about that thing with Kell, but I’m tired, and you need to get those hands looked at,” Sheppard said, still watching him.

Ronon nodded—that was another conversation he’d been expecting, but he was grateful they weren’t doing it tonight. Sheppard closed his eyes, relaxing a little more into the bed. The infirmary was growing brighter as the sun outside rose, illuminating the bruises on the side of his face and the ever-present dark circles under his eyes. He’d need at least a few more days of sleep before he looked like his old self again.

“By the way, did Teyla or McKay say anything about our nervous contact? Did they ever meet him?”

Ronon blinked. He thought Sheppard had fallen back to sleep, and it took a second for him to remember what his friend was talking about. He shook his head. “Not sure—didn’t ask.”

“Need to find out,” Sheppard mumbled, his eyes closed. “If Ford’s still out there…” His voice trailed off as he finally drifted back to sleep.

Ronon glanced up at the sound of footsteps coming toward them and sighed. His hands were beginning to throb, and whatever urge he’d felt a few minutes ago to run or spar was gone. Fatigue had moved in, and his body was begging for a break. He stood up, stretching his lower back. “I know, buddy,” he murmured. “We’ll find him.”

And they would—if he was alive and wanted to be found, they would find him, just as they would eventually find the other Satedans. What happened once they were found… He shook his head, burying those thoughts. Sheppard was right: he’d done what he had to do to survive, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

A nurse came around the corner and jumped when she saw him. She looked like she was about to yell at him for sneaking in but then her eyes fastened on his bloody hands and widened in concern. She signaled him to lie down on the bed next to Sheppard’s and Ronon obliged, his feet dragging. He hardly noticed her hand on his arm as he lay back, or the burning sting as she cleaned and bandaged his wounds. He glanced over at Sheppard sound asleep on the bed next to him and felt his own body sinking into slumber.

He was…maybe not _home,_ but he was safe, and that would have to be enough for now.

END


End file.
